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Poem
I watch as we all march blindly into the swells feet first,
scraping the ocean floor with drudgery
drowning in this academia, with starfish and sandcastles
and sentiments that wash away with each coming of the tide

We haven't always been as marching ants,
back to back and hand in hand
we've built this land from nothing

The past recedes and tomorrow rises,
time progresses: open minded
while we all dredge with stapled eyelids
still planning out our everything

Forever long, the brine blue tide is
always beckoning us onward.
Its too hard to tell when father time is
playing tricks on me.

The future is grim, the reaper's dead-bent
on harvesting the seeds we've sown
fathers who've passed on debt long owed
to sons who laugh hard while they hit the road
like water flows all the way to the sandbank
I cant help but wish on starfish sinking out to sea
that tomorrow is still a glass half-full of new surprises
vast and outstanding before me.

I took for granted the grand horizon,
full of beauty and hope, and a sun that still rises
over sandcastles crumbling into their counteraction
the certainty of sand that never sticks together long.

I took for granted the way that nothing is
the way it used to be
or was
or could've been
and how its all been done before

Can anyone look up,
when their feet are down
and they waltz on far less sacred ground
than those who came before them.

The nature of the ocean forms to fit its mold
with its blue hue reflecting bold
the sky and all its glory.

We march onward through the rivers rotting
with the raindrops spotting our overcoats
we march onward for the sake of stopping
sometime when we are old.

The ocean swells with the river's rot
the tide compelled the stars to stop
and the fish all cry as people keep on drowning.

The reaper is told to cut his losses
to save the few who still have conscience
and to try again tomorrow.

Tomorrow's glass, half-empty in want
is chock full of the river's rot
and the conscious few left fearful.
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